


the dream machine

by but_seriously



Category: The Originals (TV), Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: 'klebekah' prompt by anonymous, F/M, but ofc i had to put a bit of relijah in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/but_seriously/pseuds/but_seriously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s Paris, there’s Rome, there’s Tokyo.</p><p>Rebekah follows because it’s expected of her, because it’s her duty, because Elijah’s in a box somewhere and Finn’s buried in one and Kol - well, she doesn’t really like to talk about Kol, so you shouldn’t be asking in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dream machine

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous prompted 'klebekah' on my tumblr [here](http://highgaarden.tumblr.com/post/75321471946/can-i-please-request-a-klebekah-fic-drabble-oneshot).

There’s Paris, there’s Rome, there’s Tokyo.

Rebekah follows because it’s expected of her, because it’s her duty, because Elijah’s in a box somewhere and Finn’s buried in one and Kol - well, she doesn’t really like to talk about Kol, so you shouldn’t be asking in the first place.

All Klaus does is sit and sketch and mourn, and it’s so boring, it’s so toxic, that she puts on her brightest sundress and lowers her head from the sun, flowers in her hair and glitter in her smile because that’s what girls like these days, isn’t it, shimmery lip gloss, flower crowns, rose-dusted cheeks when a cute boy grazes his lips against your knuckles like there isn’t even a slight chance you’d tear it out of his hands.

 

 

And when Klaus doesn’t sit and sketch and mourn, Klaus drinks and feeds and tears, hearts oozing red in the clench of his fists and shirt stiff with the smell of it. Dry cleaning is a  _nightmare_  so she wonders why she does it at all, guts and blood and bile be damned as she stuffs it all into the machine, watches the solvent beat the fabric out of shape, watches the blood seep  _everywhere_.

The drycleaner had been horrified, turned her away he did, didn’t even want to  _look_  at the pile, so she eats him. Now Val lies in a drained heap by her Louboutins, and when the shirts come out dazzling and pristine, she dangles it under his nose,  _See?_ It’s not that difficult if you know your way around it.

 

 

I want to be free, she’d said once, and she’d cried because she’d thought Elijah hadn’t understood, but now she thinks maybe he didn’t have the  _luxury_ of it, that unbridled joy that comes with sweeping your thumbs across cheekbones and truly believing, if only for a moment, that you can let go. Close this door, lock it behind you, throw away the key - the monster’s trapped between the sheets but you don’t have to go back to bed, not now, not when there’s the whole  _world_  out there, not sleeping the way she is never asleep, waiting for her the way she’s waiting for Elijah to just answer her, goddamnit.

It’s the Dream Machine, she tells him, her bright smile soaked in the salt of her tears. Mechanical insides and dusky skyline thriving off of hushed prayers of children and the drowned hope of men, but there’s room for her, believe her, she’s worked hard for this, she deserves this, she’s done  _everything Nik asked_ , she’s  _tired._

"But so am I, sister." And then Elijah’s gasping, fingers tearing at her shirt, her hair, her lips, Remember this, remember this—

And Nik, he lets her catch him, lets her wrap her fingers around the dagger that’s embedded deep into Elijah’s back, lets her tug and lets her pull, leans in close, burns his thumb across her lips, “I dare you.”

Go ahead. Pull it out. Wake him up. Run away together.

I dare you.

 

 

Sometimes she wonders if this is how Caroline must have felt, alone in a hotel room, city after city, skyline after skyline, she wonders if this is the same emptiness that comes with realizing that after a hundred years, two hundred, it’s all the same. 

She wonders if she felt anything at all, in those last moments that her lips had touched Nik’s, the tear of her fingers through his shirt, the flutter of her lips when she’d hissed at him, the furious slits of her eyes,  _You need to let me go_.

Because that’s what Nik does, you see, she whispers into Caroline’s hair. He paints the world so bright, he dots the night with stars, he hangs the moon in plain view for you to see.

She pushes Caroline’s hair back, traces a finger down the delicate bonework of her face, lets her hand linger on the stake in her chest, tries not to feel so goddamn alone—

And then he takes it all away.

 

 

"I want to be free," she tells him over the tinkling of china, the hot swirl of tea, flowers in her hair and glitter in her smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. "Let me be free."

And there it is - the burn in his eyes, the clench in his jaw, the silent curl of his fingers.

But it doesn’t matter, you see, and this time she doesn’t mind you asking. The Dream Machine, it churns and it leaks and it wails and it spits; maybe she ought to feel a little afraid, maybe it’s not made for her, but it’s sure as hell there, waiting for her.

She’s ready.


End file.
